


Peppered Eggs

by SubtleGrooviness



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: 'Cuz I'm hungry, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, F/M, Fluff, Lots of food references, M/M, Probably unoriginal, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-10
Updated: 2012-06-14
Packaged: 2017-11-07 10:44:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/430198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SubtleGrooviness/pseuds/SubtleGrooviness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Usually, one would be fazed in the presence of Charles Xavier, celebrated three Michelin star chef and owner of “The Portly Pudding,” one of the most acclaimed restaurants in New York.</p><p>Sadly, Erik Lehnsherr is one of those people. Or at least, he thinks he would be, in two hours time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nothing to Do Here

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, dear readers! It's my first time writing a fic in... Two years. Yeeah. I got my account just today (after two months!) So please bear with me for a bit? :D

Usually, one would be fazed in the presence of Charles Xavier, celebrated three Michelin star chef and owner of “The Portly Pudding,” one of the most acclaimed restaurants in New York.

Sadly, Erik Lehnsherr is one of those people. Or at least, he thinks he would be, in two hours time.

He’s studied every Xavier recipe available in print, committed every last ingredient and its measurement to memory in hopes of earning one of the most respected jobs in the city.

Nobody’s actually seen Mr. Xavier’s face. It has neither appeared on any of his cookbooks nor in magazine interviews. The only available information on him is that he’s English, but grew up in somewhere in America, and that’s from hours upon hours of extensive Googling. 

No one knows what kind of person he is, whom he’s related to, or where he gets his inimitable dish ideas. Still, he’s a notable icon in the culinary world and no one will ever dare question him. 

If anything, that makes him all the more intimidating, and that’s coming from Erik Lehnsherr, proud sociopath; special abilities include cleaning via the hides of his little forest friends and a grin that puts a shark’s to disgrace.

He probably didn’t have the best reputation.

Erik spent day and night going over every paragraph, taking note of every detail. His appointment’s scheduled at the ungodly hour of seven, while the city slumbers on, save the elderly, half-naked men doing yoga in the park and sunlight loving hipsters. He’s been half awake; making sure every inch of him is spotless and impeccable. He’s put extra effort into his clothing today: a newly bought black turtleneck and russet, leather pants. His ginger scruff is trimmed just enough to pronounce his cheekbones and jaw. It’s his usual getup, but spruced up a tad more by his gelled hair and polished shoes. Hopefully, it’s enough to at least catch Mr. Xavier’s attention.

He makes a quick breakfast of French toast and cinnamon orange marmalade (homemade, Mr. Xavier’s recipe) and switches on the early morning news with a flick of his index finger. 

He’s had the ability to control metal for as long as he can remember, having inherited if from his father’s side. He knows many others with mutations, but none that were like his. Most of his colleagues had food-related mutations like temperature manipulating or retractable bone claws (which instead of using in combat, is now a portable, handy cleaver.)

There’s nothing interesting on the news this morning; oil price hikes, hobos claiming orphaned celebrity children, human protests against mutants, the usual. 

Normally, he would be annoyed at that last bit– he’d joined mutant-human equality demonstrations when he was younger, but has long since stopped to focus on his cooking– but he couldn’t because of the nervousness bubbling painfully in his stomach.

Hopefully, Mr. Xavier isn’t arrogant enough to turn him away just because he’s self-trained home cook.

6:20- He dumps his plates in the sink, reads through his notes one last time, and grabs his car keys from the small metal tray on his way out.

He switches everything off and locks his door, securing every bit of metal just so. Beaubier’s in the hallway, one of the few people who don’t think he’s a wereshark who feasts on children’s toes during full moons. Erik greets him with a smile and offers to fix the pipes he’s been nagging to the tenant. That earns him a hearty thank you and a blatantly lascivious invitation to “dinner.” He declines, obviously, but does agree to a drink sometime. He’s going need it if this week doesn’t go as planned.

\--------------------------

Erik loves summer; when the sky’s blazing hot and energizing, motivating him to move and be more productive. He loved that it was too hot for most NYC dwellers to come out, lest they freckle their delicate porcelain faces.

So naturally, the possibly most important day of his life falls on a chilly, rainy day with everyone out and about. There’s a reason why he didn’t believe in some form of higher power in the skies.

He did a quick, routinely check on his car and went off. The establishment was only three blocks down, but his grandmother’s accented German echoes in his head, telling him that he could rob a bank or frequent strip clubs, but he must never _ever_ be late. 

Lehnsherr is usually confident behind the wheel, having learned to drive when he was only fourteen, but today, his palms are sweaty and his knees trembled slightly. He’s never dreaded and wanted something at the same time so badly.

He arrives in front of the restaurant five minutes before he’s due. He gives the building a once-over, admiring the intricate jade green and gold details on the doors and walls. The restaurant had a modern yet slightly Victorian exterior. For all its awards and reviews, The Portly Pudding was modest. It didn’t require overly formal clothing or snooty patrons. Maybe a bit pricey for the average New Yorker, but so are Panerai watches, and no one complains about those, so shut up and sit down.

A man abruptly runs toward his right shoulder and they both tumble to the ground. Before Erik could help him up, (or curse at him loudly in German) a hasty apology was muttered and the man ran off inside the building. Erik only got a glimpse of brown hair and a hideously blue argyle scarf to identify him by. Shrugging, he made his way inside as well.  


The interior is more sophisticated, but just as beautiful. There’s a grand piano on a pedestal, right in the middle of everything. The tables are arranged far enough to move around in, but close enough to give a more casual feel. Wallpaper and flooring are simple, in contrast with the few but tasteful paintings and sculptures. The room overall is aesthetically pleasing, with a sandalwood-like scent wafting through the air, absorbing the aroma created by the chefs doing their early morning mise en place.

Erik sits on one of the plush dining chairs as he patiently waits for Mr. Xavier’s arrival. Instead, a young blonde woman approaches him with a clipboard and a bad attempt to conceal impatience. He briefly wonders if Mr. Xavier is actually a pseudonym, but dismisses the thought. An interview confirmed that he’s a young, English male who acts too old for his age. Lehnsherr highly doubted this woman to be said young, English male.

“Erik Lehnsherr?” She says. 

He nods. “Hi, I’m Raven Darkholme. My brother is unavailable right now, but I’ll do your interview in his place.”

She hands him the clipboard and a pen she seemingly conjures out of thin air. It’s only then he notices the woman’s slightly burnt hands.

“I’m afraid some work needs to be done in the kitchen. Charles’s doing some sort of experiment and needs constant supervision lest he burn this place down. If you need me, feel free to knock on that door right there. Okaythanksbye.”

With that, Erik is left alone with a clipboard and a sense of anxiety that should worry him more than it does.


	2. Curried X-plosions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erik meets Charles, but he doesn't meet _Charles._

The clipboard had a résumé attached, as well as a written quiz of some sort. It was mostly on food safety, sanitation, and management rather than actual cooking. Followed by an essay on his opinion on the use of exotic, slightly offensive ingredients in proper gourmet kitchens (sheep’s testicles were given as an example. Could you even eat those?) If he wasn’t worried earlier, he sure is now.

Halfway through his quiz, a loud crash, followed by two girlish screams, reverberated through the restaurant. 

Erik immediately springs to his feet and darts toward the kitchen. 

He all but slammed the door open before yelling an “Is everything alright,” but the sight of two grown adults thoroughly covered in what seemed to be thick, orange goop stopped him in his tracks. 

“–and you don’t just ignite a bloody boiling pot, a pot filled with _curry oil,_ with a fucking blowtorch! Do you _know_ what could have happened!? The whole restaurant could have caught– Hey!” Raven snaps her fingers in front of her brother’s face. “Are you even listening to me?! Oh for God’s sake–“ 

The man is still watching the pot, unyieldingly fascinated by the bubbling neon-orange mixture, when his sister morphs into a man twice her size, half naked, and coated head to toe in dark hair. She probably meant to look terrifying, but it was hard to take him seriously when she looked like a lumberjack that a glowstick threw up on.

She tapped him once on the shoulder. For all its ridiculousness, it had the necessary effect on her brother.

“Gah! Log- Raven! Don’t scare me like that!”

“Well, _you_ weren’t paying attention! How many times have I told you _not_ to _set oil on fire?_ Experiment or not! I turn my back for _one_ second and you go and bloody burn the kitchen to hell!”

It was too late when they noticed the pot boiling over, its molten liquid making a mess on the tiled floor. It was too hot to touch, so there was no way of making it to the stove.

The two squeal in horror, the man at the pot, Raven at her brother for being a _bloody idiot, you fucking dunce, how the hell are you a professional chef_ as Erik rotates the knob, using his power, and summons the nearest fire extinguisher.

They seemed to only notice his presence now, given their twin looks of wonder and gratefulness, as he extinguishes the flames and scoopes up the goop using a half-flattened wok-turned-makeshift-shovel.

“Well, I’ll be. That’s quite a mutation you have, my friend! What exactly is it? Telekinesis? Electrical manipulation? It has something to do with metal, doesn’t it? Oh think of the possibilities! You’ll certainly be useful in a kitchen. Now tell me, does this mutation come from your father’s or mother’s side? Or maybe both? Were any of them in the culinary field?” The man went on, not once stopping for a breath. 

Erik stopped listening after a while, a bit distracted by the juxtaposition between the man’s brilliant, too-blue eyes and the hideous orange he’s covered in.

So distracted, in fact, that none of them noticed an oven making loud, crackling sounds until it started to combust.

Erik hurriedly opens the metal door and uses up what’s left of the fire extinguisher. He huffs a sigh of relief when the flames finally die out.

“You’re hired!”

“Raven!”

“He can be our personal fireman! God knows how many of those we’re gonna need.”

“You can’t just– oh, let me do it. My name’s Ch–“

“What’s going on here?”

The man he had bumped into earlier appeared in the back door with a distressed frown and startled when he saw Erik, floating metal objects and all.

“I-It’s you! I’m sorry so terribly sorry it won’t happen again I can pay you for any damages just please don’t hurt me please sir I’ll do anything you want–“

“Hank,” Raven laughed, “relax.”

The tip of Hank’s cheeks colored as he muttered another apology to no one in particular.

“Anyway,” He coughs, “are you guys all right? I heard the explosion all the way from the lockers.” He places both hands on Ch’s (Chad? Chase? He looked a bit like a Chad) shoulders. Erik finds that he doesn’t like that. Not one bit.

Hank seems to notice this, as he retracts his arms as if they physically burned.

“All right, get yourselves cleaned up, you two. Restaurant’s gonna open in three hours. I’ll take care of his papers.”

\--------------------------

“Well, your test results are pretty good. Way above the average home cook, if your résumé is anything to go by. Uh, not that I’m doubting you Mr. Erik Lehnsherr… sir.”  
Erik was a bit worried about this part; he’s neither had the funds nor the patience for a professional culinary school.

Hank didn’t seem bothered at all, though. He looked impressed, even.

“Right, okay, good. Next’s the actual cooking. Charles will see to you himself sometime tonight, once service’s over. Come back at, say, twelve o’clock? It'll be clean-up by then, so just knock on the backdoor and someone’ll let you in.”

Erik nodded wordlessly, not trusting his voice quite yet, too excited that he’s going to meet _Charles Xavier._ In less than twenty-four hours, he’s going to see Charles Xavier with his _very own eyes._

To Hank, he may have looked passive, but he was doing his absolute best to suppress the fifteen-year-old schoolgirl inside him, giddy and slightly star struck.

Some of it must have leaked through, though, because Hank gives him an odd, questioning look. 

“M-Mr. Lehnsherr? Are you okay? Your face is a bit red. Is it too hot in here or…?”

Erik shot him a glare, which quieted him almost instantly. It was probably best to have him a bit intimidated, seeing how touchy feely he is with certain people.

“So… Midnight. I’ll give you my number, just in case you have any questions or if you want to reschedule.” He held out a small blue calling card with his mobile and telephone number. He looked painfully reluctant to give Erik this kind of information, though, lest he stalk and kill him.

He felt a bit bad for Hank, so he shot him a toothy grin and a thank you (which might have scared him more) and got up, making his way out the door to his car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From now on, I'll be updating this every two or three days (possibly four 'cuz school's coming up...) I just hope there aren't any grammatical errors along the way... :D


	3. Sultry Critics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be editing the other two chapters over the next few days. There'll be the same content, but I've just realized how awkward my wording is so... Yeeeah...

_Okay, veal wellington, lobster soufflé, maybe a bisque, and baklava. I should have puff pastry and phyllo somewhere in the freezer._

He seasons his pans and clears the kitchen counter as he goes over the recipes in his head.

Erik’s mantra sounded repetitively in his head. _Don’t screw up. Charles Xavier will be watching. Don’t screw up. Charles Xavier will be watching._

A deep breath, get to work.

He was halfway through making his starter when he realized: half the ingredients he needed weren’t in his pantry.

_Fucking hell. Focus, Erik._

He figures he has enough time, what with nine hours to kill, and drives to the nearest Citarella.

\--------------------------

Erik dashes in and gathers everything he needs, having already memorized every nook and cranny of the store by heart.

He’s stuck at the freezer section, waiting to choose his cut, when he sees a tall man looking desperately like he wants to strangle the butcher in front of him. 

The man meets Erik’s eyes, looking him up and down appreciatively. Erik suppresses a pained shudder as the man practically saunters to him.

“You seem like a man with refined taste,” he practically purrs. The man looks at Erik’s shopping basket, scrutinizing all the contents. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Sebastian Shaw, food critic;” he says this with more pride than is probably necessary.

“Erik Lehnsherr,” he returns. Shaw had a slightly upturned nose and thin lips, a face that could easily be distinguished from far away. He would’ve looked almost friendly, if Erik hadn’t seen him raging mad at the butcher earlier.

“I’m opening a restaurant downtown and am looking for some new flair. You seem like a fine, young man, and I could mould you into a fine, young chef. Rookie, I take it?”

Erik was momentarily stunned by his assumption, but didn’t let him know. “Yes, but I’ve had some experience.” Whether Shaw had seen it for the lie it is, Erik couldn’t tell. “I’ve applied for a job in _The Portly Pudding._ ”

Shaw scowled, but the frown on his face disappeared as quickly as it came. “I see. Well, if you change your mind, give me a call.” He hands Erik a business card. “A man of your talent may be more suited elsewhere.”

Before he could retort, Shaw leaves. 

Erik crumples the business card into his pocket and shrugs it off for now. He’s never heard anyone talk about his dream job with so much contempt before.

\--------------------------

He finishes cooking at around nine in the evening. He’s skipped both lunch and dinner, but doesn’t have the appetite to eat at the moment. Shrugging, he stuffs his mouth with a piece of baklava and decides to pay the restaurant an early visit.

\--------------------------

He decides to walk there, not having much to do in the time anyway. The night air is cool, almost nippy, but is polluted with the city’s smog. Erik almost likes it, the way it makes the lights hazy and beautiful.

The restaurant’s just barely visible from where he’s standing, merely a flurry of lights and sounds and satisfied customers. The only thing that suggested that this was the same establishment he was in earlier today was a man’s voice, timid when he last heard it, but was now booming with anger.

“And if you ever, _ever_ pull a stunt like that again, I _will_ call the police.”

The only response to the man’s threat was a short, indignant guffaw. “It's as if you have the balls, McCoy,” he says, and all but struts away.

Erik decides not to agitate Hank even more, he’s possibly going to be his coworker, after all, and goes straight to the back door, as quietly as possible.

After five minutes of nonstop rapping, he lets himself in by manipulating the locks on the door.

As he wanders inside, Raven and her brother come out of the service area door. Raven’s cursing at everything in sight, just as angry, if not more, than he saw her this morning. The man just stands, stressed and fuming, but doesn’t say a word. Erik wonders if this is what the siblings are like on a daily basis.

The man starts and looks precisely in Erik’s direction and gives him a warm smile, which makes his stomach do an odd twist and knot.

He blames it on the baklava. He knew he should’ve eaten a bit more.

“At least something’s going right tonight,” he sighs. “I’m really glad you’re early, Mr. Lehnsherr. If you weren’t, I’m afraid I might’ve had to cancel on you. We don’t want that, of course. We’d like to build our team as quickly as possible.

“So, let’s get started, shall we?”

“Um, excuse me, Mr. Darkholme,” Raven looks like she’s in her late teens, so hopefully it was safe to assume, “I was under the impression Mr. Xavier would be the one carrying out my, erm, audition.”

He looks at him bemusedly and chuckles, “I’m so very sorry, but I don’t think I was able to properly introduce myself earlier. Charles Xavier, head chef of this fine establishment, and telepath.”

Erik stands there, dumbstruck, as everything dawns on him. He’s right here. He’s always been right here.

_I think I’m gonna throw up._

_Oh please don’t, we’ve just waxed the tiles._

Charles looks at him and winks. “Right, let’s get started. You’ve quite a test ahead of you, after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know HOW to describe Bacon, actually. The only thing I noticed's the piggy nose. Aww piggy nose.
> 
> \----------------------
> 
> This's gonna be on hold for a while. Frankly, I feel a bit awkward with it. :\ Maybe it wasn;t such a good idea to write a full-length fic when I've barely gotten used to writing again... Sooo I'm gonna be working on a few oneshots in the meantime. Hope you guys look out for it! They'll be much longer and I'll proofread them THRICE. (Normally, I don't re-read it more than once... Yeeah, big mistake.) Ktnxbye!


End file.
